


River To The Ocean Go

by littleblackfox



Series: The Thrice Damned Fic [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Body Horror, Demon AU, M/M, Not Enough Sam Wilson, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-10 09:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6977647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The house walls are tighter, the bed it is small<br/>Housing just one soul, just one soul at all<br/>When it once held two, it once held two<br/>Now it doesn't hold you<br/>- Trudy Dies<br/>Palace Music</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Diaspora

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks! Part two of the Thrice Damned Fic is here  
> 7 chapters, 7 days  
> You can find me on tumblr, if you do that sort of thing thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com where I bitch about mental illness and Sebastian Stan and his insufferably pretty face.

For a long time he drifts, as if floating on an endless sea. Without anchor or sail he moves with the tide. There is light. There is darkness. There is light again. Distant voices, static. A radio. A baseball game. He turns to the sound. He remembers peanuts in a paper bag. The Brooklyn Dodgers. His Ma before she got sick. He opens his eyes.  
A room, White walls, door. No windows, no furnishings but for the bed he’s lying on and a small table with an old radio set on it.  
He sits up. His body aches. His head feels like it’s been stuffed full of wet newspaper. Where is he? He closes his eyes, presses a thumb between his eyebrows. Why can’t he think? His chest hurts, not like when he had asthma. A different pain, hollow and vast like when his Ma died. A spark. A flash of memory. Creatures screaming in an endless pit in the darkness. The ocean seen from the bridge of a bomber, rushing closer. His fingers tangled in dark hair, saltwater soaking into the collar of his jacket. Silver discs etched with symbols half buried in the dirt. Fingers burning to ash against the curve of his jaw. His eyes snap open.  
“Bucky?” He says softly. “Bukavac?”  
He listens. Silence. Slowly gets to his feet.  
The door opens and a woman dressed as a nurse walks in.  
“Good morning, Captain Rogers” she says with a smile.  
Wrong. Wrong. All wrong. The clothes on his skin feel wrong. The air in his lungs.  
“Where am I?” He asks. It’s not the question he wants to ask.  
“You’re in a recovery room. In New York.” She smiles.  
He shakes his head. If he listens, if he strains, he can feel it. Something clattering. Sound and movement. Energy crackles through the walls, through the air. Discordant, sound overlapping sound. He thinks of the Demons crushed together in the pit. He covers his ears with his hands, tries not to scream.  
The woman steps away from him, mutters something that sounds like a command. Steve takes slow, deep breaths. He draws in whatever it was that he had sent out searching and the cacophony recedes. He looks over at the woman.  
“Get me whoever is in charge.”  
“That would be me,” says a voice in the doorway.  
A man, tall and dressed in black. An eyepatch covering a mess of scar tissue. Chestnut skin. For a moment Steve thinks Djinn, then the world shifts slightly and the figure before him is human.  
“At ease, Soldier”. He drawls. “Look, I’m sorry about the little show. We weren’t entirely sure what we were dealing with. Thought we should break it to you slowly”.  
“Break what?” He whispers. That cold ache in his chest seems to swell.  
“You’ve been asleep, Captain. Almost seventy years”.  
Steve slowly lowers himself to the bed.  
“What happened?”  
The man steps closer.  
“We found the Valkyrie in the Arctic. You were in it. We were understandably surprised when you weren’t dead, seeing as you had made the ultimate sacrifice and stopped the Red Skull back in 1943”. The man tilts his head.  
Steve drops his head into his hands. He remembers a soft low voice insisting that he wasn’t corrupted, that it was an accident.  
“So we ran some tests, and there were a few more surprises”.  
“A little bit Demon,” he says quietly.  
The man shrugs.  
“more than a little,” he says. Steve shakes his head.  
“That’s not possible. Johann Schmidt was trying to become a Demon. We performed an exorcism, it tore him in half. Why didn’t it affect me?”  
“You ever take a glass of water and put a drop of ink in it?” He glances at Steve, who nods. “You ever try to get the ink back out again?” Steve shakes his head. “It’s bonded to you, Cap. Down to your cells”.  
Bonded. Erskine had called called them bonded, back in Italy.  
“Which is inconvenient, since Demons don’t actually exist”.  
Steve is on his feet instantly.  
“What?” He snarls. The man raises his hands placatingly.  
“After that mess in the Alps the World Security Council decided that it couldn’t happen again. SHIELD was formed by your old friends the SSR, and spent the next twenty years hunting down and destroying every demonic artifact Hydra possessed”.  
Steve takes a step closer. He thinks of Erskine, with his gentle wisdom. Thinks of Bucky standing in a courtyard in Europe, frost limning his hands, his lips turning blue as the air shimmered around them. Thinks of everything he gave up for them.  
“You wiped them from history,” he growls. “You wiped us from history”.  
“Captain Steve Rogers is history. A legend. The Howling Commando’s, Sergeant Barnes, they are legends. Their deeds have not been forgotten. You can see it in the Smithsonian. But history remembers them as human”. He scowls at Steve. “It cannot happen again”.  
Steve can’t argue with that. But where does that leave him?  
It takes time to make a Demon, Bucky had said. Time, and pain, and fear. Seventy years frozen in the Arctic, raw with grief. He thinks of Bucky paralysed on the edge of the pit. Bucky who would rather burn than be a slave.  
“What are you going to do with me?” He asks quietly.  
“I’m going to offer you a job”.

He introduces himself then. Nick Fury, director of SHIELD. An extra-governmental counterterrorism and intelligence agency, tasked with maintaining global security. Hydra, the Nazi science division that went rogue, was dismantled by SHIELD at the end of the war, but apparently there were no end of terrorists, dictators and psychopaths who wanted to destroy the world and SHIELD was there to stop them.  
They could use a man like Steve Rogers, he said. A legend from the old days resurrected. A symbol of freedom and justice. Steve struggles not to choke at the words. A Demon as a symbol of freedom. A buried secret as a symbol of justice.  
But he had been a soldier. He had believed in doing the right thing. Everything else he knew had gone, lost to time. But he still had that, didn’t he? He could still do some good.  
“And if I say no?” He asks, shoulders tense. Fury shrugs.  
“Off you go”. He see’s the tension ease in Rogers spine. His fists unclenching. “We can provide you with a new identity, let you go live your life. We will, however, be keeping an eye on you, you understand”. Fury smirks. “You might wanna do some catching up, first. Read up on Captain America”.  
Captain what? He lets the epithet slide.  
“Can I think about it?”  
Fury nods. All that happens after is a blur. Debriefing. A bank account that requires a flimsy little strip of plastic and a number. A heavy rectangle of glass and metal that they insist is a telephone. A SHIELD owned apartment in Brooklyn not too far from his old place, long since torn to the ground.  
Take your time, Fury says. We’ll be waiting. Steve thinks of a spider at the edge of a web, wonders how tangled up in the threads he already is.

He tries to get to grips with the new world. Everything is faster, louder. Nothing is simple anymore, even the food is strange. It’s better, he has to concede, though he has little appetite for it. He retreats into what is left of his old life. Goldies Gym is still there, though the original Goldie is long gone. His grandson owns the place. It looks smaller than it used to, peeling paint and threadbare punching bags. He spends too much time there after hours, going through the motions of wrapping his hands, losing himself in the jab and the cross, the hook and the uppercut.  
There is a wall of framed photos from boxing championships stretching back a hundred years. Eventually he finds Bucky amongst them. YMCA Welterweight boxing champion. 1941. Bucky looks into the camera, a smile curling the edges of his mouth.  
He buys a pack of chalks and a handful of candles on his way home. Pricks his finger and draws out a summoning circle. Lights the candles. He recites the invocation, feeling the shape of the words, the hidden meanings in their sounds. Calls out a name. The candles flicker and burn. The circle is empty. The circle is always empty.  
He rubs his face with his sleeve, tells himself that its candle smoke making his eyes burn. Takes a breath and snuffs out the candles, one by one. Wipes the chalk up off the floor and washes his hands.  
He does not return to Goldies.

At night he goes running. When he can’t bear the press of bodies any longer he hails a cab. Sometimes he asks them to just drive for a while, sometimes he’ll ask them to take him to their favourite pizza place, their favourite diner. When he feels restless he’ll find a 24 hour gym that he’s not been to before. He apologises to the night staff. He pays for the damage done to the equipment.  
He knows that he’s drifting. He knows that it can’t last.  
He flags down a cab and climbs in. He’s not sure where he wants to go. Anywhere but here. He says as much to the driver, who snorts a laugh and Steve thinks Demon.  
He looks up. The driver is broad shouldered, with coppery skin and salt and pepper hair. His neatly groomed beard belongs in the 17th century. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses. He pulls them down his nose and glances in the rearview mirror. Steve sees glowing embers, banked low. The driver pushes the shades back into place and pulls out into traffic. Courtesy, a faint memory echoes in his ear.  
“What should I call you?” He asks quietly.  
The Demon taps the license dangling from the dashboard. The picture bears a passing resemblance to him. The name reads ‘Omid’. The meter next to the ID badge is turned off.  
“The meter’s off, Omid”. Steve says warily.  
“Yes it is,” the Demon, the ifrit responds cheerfully.  
“I don’t want any trouble, sir”.  
At that the ifrit laughs. Shakes his head. Changes lane.  
“Remember you,” it says. It’s voice like the crackling of charcoal and the curl of ashes. “In the pit. In the darkness”.  
“You were there? You survived?” Steve gasps. The ifrit nods and grins. Steve shakes his head. “I thought. I thought no one had come back. You’re the first I’ve seen since 1945.”  
He carefully avoids the word Demon. It doesn’t go unnoticed.  
“After that shitstorm in Europe? Not surprised. Nazi’s burned through most of us, not many left now. Some in Asia, I hear. But mostly hiding in the space inbetween”.  
“So what are you doing here?” Steve asks. Omid smiles, broad and bright and filled with teeth.  
“Got me a girl,” he says softly. He taps at a photo on the dashboard. A woman in her fifties with long flaming hair. “Beth. Been together thirty years. Got three kids, eight grandkids”. His smile softens. He taps the photo again. “My Beth”.  
Steve can’t help but smile at that. He calls her beautiful and watches Omid swell with pride.  
“So for you, no charge,” he says eventually. “Least I can do, after what you two did for us”.  
Steve feels his stomach drop. Feels a chill in his bones.  
“You knew Bucky?’ He whispers. Omid nods, smiles sadly.  
“Parthia. The Macedonian was tearing his way through the world. Persepolis was burning. So Artashata calls for a truce, but the Macedonian does not listen”. He pauses to slow down and make a turn. “Three times Artashata offers compromise, but his treaties are cast aside. So he raises up his army and goes to war. It is a bloodbath”. Omid pauses, lets out a heavy sigh. “We were gravely wounded, my kin and I. The new king sends out his Demons to deal with the dregs”.  
Omid drums on the steering wheel, looks up at Steve in the rear view mirror.  
“Bukavac found us. But he did not kill us, instead smuggled us out to Babylon”.  
Steve can’t help but smile.  
“Bukavac was a troublemaker, but had a good heart”.  
“Yeah,” Steve feels his throat close up. “He was always… Protective”.  
Omid laughs at that.  
“Little shit wasn’t protective. Territorial. Didn’t like anyone touching what was his”. He turns in his seat, looks over at Steve. “And you were. You were his”.  
Steve can feel himself tremble. He says nothing as Omid turns back to the road.  
“Is he… Is he still out there somewhere?”  
“No,” Omid says gently. “I saw him burn”.  
Steve can feel the fingers crumbling into smoke and soot against his throat. Hear the soft gasps of pain against his skin. He doesn’t hear Omid speaking to him. Doesn’t feel the cab pull over. Doesn’t hear the engine stop. There is a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. There is a hand on his shoulder and the air smells like cinnamon and damp rich earth. There is a creature in the cab made of fire and righteousness pressing a hand to his cheek. Its skin is burnished gold. Its wings are made of flame. He blinks, shakes his head. He is in the back of a cab. The driver is an older man with a wife and three children and eyes like burning coals behind his sunglasses. He shakes a bottle of water at Steve, tells him to sip it slowly. Pats his shoulder  
“Too them for us, too us for them. Not enough for either,” he says gently. It will take Steve a long time to work out what he means. Longer to learn there is a word for it. He finishes his water. Takes a deep breath.  
“I need to go to Washington,” he says finally. Omid starts the car, pulls out into traffic.  
“And what is in Washington?”  
“A job”.


	2. Washington

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There was one entry. A minor river Demon. 'Cantankerous, foul mouthed and prone to killing its masters’ if I remember the description rightly,” Peggy smiles. “It rather reminded me of Sergeant Barnes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, left kudos and commented on the last chapter. I love you and will shower you with baked goods.  
> Cuddles and cookies to anyone who figures out the ridiculous cameo!  
> You can find me at thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com if that's your kind of thing.

Omid deposits him four hours later in sight of the Triskelion, a massive edifice of concrete and steel that looms over the Potomac river. He insists on giving Steve a hug goodbye, and refuses to take any money from him. He whispers his true name in Steve’s ear as they part.  
“If you have need,” he says gently.

The SHIELD headquarters stand on an island. It is distressingly modern, all open spaces and glass. He feels exposed, uncomfortable, as he crosses the bridge towards it. Director Fury is waiting for him at the entrance.  
Some things will never change. Papers are signed, lectures are given. He is shuffled from department to department. He sits on stylish and uncomfortable furniture and waits in stylish and uncomfortable rooms. A succession of slick, sharp suited men and woman shake his hand, ask him questions and give him papers to sign. He is given keys to an apartment in a secure location. The wheels of bureaucracy turn. There are discussions about how to reintroduce him to society. The truth is considered unpalatable in a world where Demons don’t exist. He barely hears the new version of events. Finds it hard to care about press releases and news conferences, or feel inclined to take part in them. No press, they mutter to themselves. Captain America lives, and just like that Steve Rogers is part of the world again.

After putting it off for too long, he takes a trip to the Smithsonian to see what the fuss is about this Captain America.  
Oh god.  
He doesn’t know whether to laugh or be horrified. He is a cartoon character. While the Howling Commandos had been taking down Hydra bases in Europe, the US government had been using them to influence public opinion during the war. There were comic books. Comic books full of some sort of caricature of him, dressed in the flag and waving around a shield, spouting out trite phrases and punching Hitler in the jaw. He stumbles through the exhibits in a daze. Trading cards. War bonds. Then he sees Bucky. Bucky in the comic books is a kid. A sidekick dressed in a ridiculous costume. Steve feels sick. Humiliated. He is vaguely aware that he is shaking. He balls his hands into fists. Tries to breathe. Breathe in. Five seconds. Breathe out. Five seconds. He feels movement. Someone is standing next to him.   
“You okay, son?”  
He looks up. A security guard. An older man, short white hair and a face that could kindly be described as ‘lived in’. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Turns back to the exhibit. He wants to punch through the glass display case. Tear the pulp and ink to shreds. The guard scowls in sympathy and pats his shoulder.  
“Never much liked that kid,” his accent is pure New York. “One o’ my pet peeves, stickin’ young kids in superhero comics. But they wanted to appeal to children.” He shrugs. Steve unclenches his fists. The guard moves a hand to the small of his back, gently guides him away from the exhibit.  
“C’mon kid, let me show you something.”  
The guard leads him out of the hateful room, keeping up a steady stream of chatter as he goes. He talks about the Captain America of his youth, kids running through the streets waving trash can lids painted with a star and stripes looking for bad guys to fight. Little by little, Steve feels, not better, so much. But not so bad. Better comes when he is led into the Howling Commandos exhibit.   
The lighting is sobre, and the space is dominated by a display of mannequins dressed in their uniforms. He feels like he might choke, like his heart is trying to climb out of his mouth.  
“This is where you wanna be,” the guard says quietly. Gives him one last pat and saunters away.  
They are all there. Dugan and Morita and the rest. Images of them in uniform are scattered around the room. Flickering recordings of them are projected on the walls. Filmed interviews are played in a small screening room. He stares for a long time at a few moments caught on camera of Bucky and himself. He doesn’t even remember being filmed, but there they are. A silent moving image of him muttering something and Bucky laughing, throwing his head back and laughing so hard that Steve can’t help but smile. He sees Peggy, older than he remembers her, recounting stories of the founding of SHIELD. There is a memorial to Sergeant Barnes that makes his heart clench painfully. What is written is not the truth, not by a long shot, but it soothes him to see his friend remembered. He touches a fingertip to the image, a light tap to the chest.  
“Hey, Buck”. He says softly. 

He rests a little easier. It’s not good. It’s not better. But it feels like progress. He goes running each morning around the Lincoln memorial just before dawn. He finds comfort in the twilight and the rising of the sun. In the silver light shimmering on the water.  
He meets a man out running. Sam, a former soldier. His dark humour and military background puts Steve at ease. He lost someone too, and the loss weights heavily on him. He’s a counsellor, a good one, and can see something broken in Steve. Coaxes him to come down to the VA sometime. Steve is noncommittal. SHIELD have been pushing him to seek counselling since he came out of the ice. But no amount of words spoken can change the past or bring back the dead. No amount of talking things through will make what happened okay, he knows that. So he says his goodbyes and keeps on running.

SHIELD calls him up on an assignment. He’s paired with an agent, Romanov. She is small, beautiful and sharp like a razor. Her background is classified, much like his, though she is ex-Soviet rather than not entirely human. She teases him mercilessly and he likes her for it. Too many people are in awe of him. The few authorised to read his files are wary of him, like he might start sprouting horns and spraying fire. But Romanov calls him ‘fossil’ and ‘old man’ and tries to set him up on dates. She makes it her personal mission to make him blush, or get flustered. After being handled so long like a strange package that has started to tick, it’s a welcome relief. He doesn’t quite trust her. He can’t shake the notion that she would approve of that.  
The mission goes okay. A bit hairy in places but everyone makes it out alive. It’s not the life he wanted, not the life he misses. But it’s good. It will do.

Peggy Carter is alive. For a moment he struggles to process the information, blurted out in passing by another agent. Because Peggy belongs in the past, not in the over-loud, over-bright now. In the end, there is really no decision to be made. He calls up the nursing home and asks about a visit.

She is thrilled to see him. She is still beautiful, though her body is weak and her mind is failing. It is cruel, Steve thinks, to see a brilliant mind fading away. He does what he can for her, places a hand at her wrist and breathes with her until the clouds behind her eyes pass. Wishes it wasn’t a temporary reprieve. He looks at the photographs on her bedside table. A husband, two children. A good life lived. She keeps his hand clasped in hers, her fingers trembling. It is like being held by a birds wings, there is no weight to her touch. He tells her about working for SHIELD. He doesn’t tell her that he does it because she was one of its founders, he suspects that she already knows. He tells her how badly he wants to do what is right. How he isn’t certain what is right anymore. How he has thrown himself back into work, he is trying to follow orders. But it isn’t the same. It feels wrong like an ill fitting garment. She chuckles and calls him melodramatic. Then she pauses, looks at him carefully.  
“I was in Austria, in the aftermath. Under orders to eradicate anything pertaining to the occult. I can’t say I agreed with the decision, but”. She pauses. “I found a book. A Grimoire. A list of Demons. Of course it had to be destroyed, but...” Steve freezes. She strokes his hand. “There was one entry. A minor river Demon. ‘Cantankerous, foul mouthed and prone to killing its masters’ if I remember the description rightly,” she smiles. “It rather reminded me of Sergeant Barnes.”  
Steve can feel the tremors in his fingers. The tightness in his chest. Peggy hushes him, makes soothing sounds until the moment passes.   
“I know how much he meant to you,” she begins but Steve shakes his head.  
“We were never”. He stops, takes a deep breath. “We…” The words clog up his throat, clatter against his teeth. “He. But I”. He forces each word out. Can hardly breathe with the weight of them. Remembers the cold press of lips. The taste of bitter coffee and acrid smoke. A slip of paper clenched in his hand.   
“He told me to marry you,” he says finally with a bitter smile. “At the end”. Peggy lets out a soft chuckle.  
“Oh dear God, no. That would have been awful”. She laughs.   
Steve can’t help but smile. It should hurt but it doesn’t. Brilliant, beautiful Peggy Carter. Smarter than any of ‘em.  
“It wasn’t your fault,” she says kindly. He shakes his head.  
“He wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me,” he feels heavy with guilt. “I wanted. I should have…” He stops. Sighs. He can’t put it into words. He could never find the right words. “I thought we’d have more time,” he says finally. Because that is what hurts, more than anything.   
“Did you believe in him? Did you respect him?” She asks.  
“Yes,” he breathes.  
“Then stop blaming yourself. Allow him the dignity of his choice. He damn well thought you were worth it.” She speaks firmly and he cannot argue with her. “And it was bloody obvious to anyone with half a brain how much you cared for each other”. She reaches up and presses a hand to his face. Her skin is like paper. He can feel her thready pulse trembling through her veins.  
“The world has changed and none of us can go back. All we can do is our best”.  
He presses his hand against hers, leans into her touch. He can feel her mind drifting away. Feel the fog rolling in. So he kisses the palm of her hand and tells her that he’ll come visit again soon. Presses a hand to her forehead and tells her to rest. 

He buys an antique record player and a handful of vinyl. He plays Glenn Miller and Harry James in the evenings when his apartment is too quiet. He goes on missions with Romanov. It’s not the life he misses, but it will do.


	3. Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was fast. Strong. Had a metal arm”. He glances at her. “Demon”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks.  
> Chapter 3! And this will answer the question you were asking in chapter 1 (yes, it's him)

Steve visits Sam at the VA. Lurks in the corner while he leads a group discussion. Sam is patient and supportive with an iron core that tolerates no bullshit, which Steve suspects is the reason he likes the man so much. He watches the veterans struggle through their stories. He tries to picture himself among them. Tries to imagine opening his mouth and words falling out. How would they react to stories of Demons, of a Demon among them? He pushes the thought away. Watches the man he might call a friend offer advice, bring the meeting to a close and send everyone back out into the world. Sam glances over and sees Steve lurking.  
“Hey,” Sam calls, “Look who it is”.  
Steve smiles and comes closer, shakes his hand.  
“Caught the last few minutes”. A lie. He has been trailing around the building all morning. “Pretty intense”.  
“Yeah, we all got the same problems. Guilt. Regret”. Steve knows he’s being pushed. That Sam has made it some sort of personal crusade to help Steve Rogers. Steve lets him needle and push, because he knows he’s not doing it for Captain America, that he’d do it for any half decent guy who has returned from combat broken.  
“But you’re happy now, right?” He asks, trying to keep the weight of the words off his tongue.  
“Hell yeah. Nobody giving me orders or shooting at me”. He grins, but he gives Steve an assessing look.  
“You thinking about getting out?”  
Steve shakes his head.   
“No”. A lie. “I don’t know”. Better. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I did”.  
Not a lie. He also knows about veteran suicide rates, knows that more people die back home, in a world they don’t understand anymore, than out on the front lines.   
“Well, what makes you happy?” Sam asks.  
He thinks of Coney Island. Of a soft, low voice reading out loud from a magazine.   
“I don’t know”.

It’s dark by the time he me makes his way back to his apartment. He has his key in the door when he realises he can hear music playing inside. He pauses, takes a deep breath. Stretches out his senses. The scratch of needle on turntable. A low, heavy wheezing. The metallic taste of blood. Wounded. Hiding. Human. He opens the door. The curtains are drawn, the rooms dark. He makes his way through the hall. There is a tale told in the smears of blood on the walls, the dirt streaked on the carpet. Ambush, the scent of engine oil whispers to him. Pursuit, the fragments of broken glass on the counter recall. Help Me the bruises hidden under leather demand.   
He finds Director Fury in a heap on his kitchen floor, back to the wall, eyes flickering between the doors and windows. He holds a finger to his lips. Takes out his phone, types out the words ‘Ears everywhere’ and holds it out to him. Steve kneels down in front of him, watches as he deletes the message. Fury slides the phone back into his pocket, reaches into his leather jacket and pulls out a small silver object. He holds it out. It thrums with energy and makes his skin prickle, but Steve takes it anyway.   
“Trust no one,” Fury warns him. Steve resists the urge to point out that he lives by that motto most of the time anyway.   
He feels a pull and twist in his chest. His heart skips a beat, then begins to pound. There is a soft sound, like a suppressed cough, and blood blooms on Fury’s chest. Steve recoils, then is on his feet. He grabs a dishcloth, presses it to Fury's chest. Clamps both his hands over the wound. He doesn’t need to sift through the sensations running through his limbs, twisting in his gut, his body one raging proximity warning. Steve pulls out his phone, hesitates, calls Romanov. She answers on the first ring and he briefs her quickly. Fury is down. He’s in pursuit. Demon.

He throws himself out into the hall, up the stairs, to the roof. He’s dimly aware that he is leaving wreckage in his wake, cracked plaster and splintered doors. He sees movement in the distance and starts running. He’s not even thinking, just moving. His heart is clattering in his chest, his blood screaming in his veins. The Demon is fast, agile and relentless, moving from rooftop to rooftop with ease and Steve pushes himself to keep up. It moves like a man, though he can barely see it in the darkness, can just about catch the thrum of repressed energy that trails in its wake. It’s stronger than him, he realises. Faster. He can’t catch it. He pauses, reaches down into himself in a way that he can’t describe, balls up his aching limbs and panic and anger and hurls it out towards the Demon. It’s clumsily done, but fast and well aimed. The Demon spins around and throws up a hand. It’s arm looks like metal, steel fingers splayed. It’s features are obscured by a heavy muzzle. It snatches the energy thrown towards it out of the air, spins around and hurls it back at him. Steve is thrown off his feet by the blast, knocked senseless by it. By the time he comes to, the Demon has gone.

He makes his way back to his apartment to find it deserted. Blood stains the kitchen floor. A message from Romanov tells him to get his ass over to the hospital. He finds her in an observation room watching as doctors operate on Director Fury.  
“Do you think he’s gonna make it?” she asks quietly.  
He doesn’t know how to answer. Doesn’t know how to explain that sometimes he can do things, when in a state of high anxiety or intense pressure. But he doesn’t know. He can recognise a Demon, but can’t say how. And he can’t look at someone and tell if they are going to live or die. He shakes his head.  
“I don’t know”.  
“Who did it?”  
“He was fast. Strong. Had a metal arm”. He glances at her. “Demon”.  
She flinches. Gives him an apologetic glance. So she does know about him.   
On the other side of the glass there is a rush of activity. They watch in silence as the medical staff search for a pulse and charge a defibrillator. Romanov places a hand on the glass.  
“Don’t do this to me, Nick,” she mutters.  
They shock Fury again. Check for a pulse that isn’t there. Romanov presses against the glass and mutters under her breath, falling silent when they call the time of death. An agent arrives shortly after to take them back to the Triskelion for debriefing. Steve can’t remember his name, only that there is something about the guy that sets him on edge, makes the pit of his stomach twist in apprehension.

Steve is escorted to the World Security Council, occupying the top floor of the Triskelion. He tries to remain relaxed, tries not to find the armed guard unsettling. They are people he knows, people he has been working with for months now.   
He is introduced to Alexander Pierce, the Council Secretary. An older man with a rugged, handsome face and easy charm. He shakes Steve’s hand and smiles warmly.Steve has read the files, knows Pierce is the son of a war hero and respected diplomat, that he declined the Nobel Peace Prize arguing that peace wasn’t an achievement but a responsibility  
“It’s an honour, sir,” he says softly.  
“The honour is mine,” Pierce replies warmly, leading them into his office. He takes a long, assessing look at Steve. Long enough to make him uncomfortable.  
“Sir?” Steve says warily. Pierce smiles.  
“I grew up with Captain America. I’m still getting used to seeing you in the flesh”.  
Steve lowers his eyes. He feels uncomfortable with the title. He doesn’t know how to explain that it isn’t him, just a story made up while he lingered in the ice.   
“A little after my time,” he says carefully. Pierce nods.  
“Must have been a shock to wake up to. To be a figurehead. A symbol for people to rally behind”. Steve nods. “Do you know where the term ‘figurehead’ comes from, Captain?”  
No, sir”.  
“The figure on the prow of a sailing ship. A symbol, carved out of wood, with no real power or authority. But useful”.   
Steve feels himself tense, but keeps his mouth shut.   
“I took a seat on the council not because I wanted to, but because I’m a realist”. He fixes Steve with a cold stare. “Underneath the diplomacy and the rhetoric, we all know that to build a better world sometimes means having to tear the old one down”.  
He stops, walks over to the window and looks down on the city below.  
“That makes enemies. You stick your hands in the mud and try to make something better and they call you dirty”. He glances back at Steve. “If you were anyone else, I’d question why Fury showed up at your door. I would wonder aloud about a mysterious assailant that killed him and vanished without a trace”.  
Steve takes a half step forward.  
“Sir,” he begins. Pierce waves a hand at him.  
“But you’re America’s golden boy. Above reproach”. Steve shakes his head.  
“I don’t know why Director Fury showed up at my apartment, sir. And I don’t know who killed him”.  
Pierce walks over to a drinks cabinet, pours himself a whiskey.  
“Someone killed my friend, Captain. I intend to find out why”.  
With that, Pierce turns his back to Steve and he knows he has been dismissed. 

He ends up going back to the hospital. The encounter with Pierce has made him uneasy. He finds Romanov and hustles her into an empty room. Before he gets a chance to speak, she says two words. Winter Soldier.  
“What?”  
“He’s a ghost story. Credited with around thirty assassinations in the last fifty years. Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists”.  
“But you do,” he says warily. She nods.   
“There’s no point going after him. It’s a dead end,” she hesitates. “Demon, you say?” Steve nods and she hums to herself. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the metal object Fury gave him. It is silver and teardrop shaped, about the size of his thumb. He holds it out to her.  
“Recognise this?”  
Romanov picks it up carefully. Shakes her head.  
“No. What is it?”  
He flattens his hand and places the object in the centre of his palm. It rolls clockwise slowly, pauses, rolls back until it is pointing east.  
“A compass”.


	4. The Kobald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't look for the Demon, look for the man with a stick driving the Demon".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks!  
> Another day, another chapter.  
> Some, plot, a familiar face and an undisclosed number of rockets.

Romanov obtains a car and Steve doesn't ask how. He does state in no uncertain terms that it will be put back where it belongs and there will not be a single scratch on it when that happens. Romanov just smiles at him and aims east.  
“You ever see this Winter Soldier,” he asks suddenly.  
“Five years ago in Odessa. Escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran”. She frowns to herself. “He killed the engineer, didn’t touch me. It was like I didn’t exist to him”. She glances at Steve. “Tried to track him down, but he vanished. Nothing. No safe houses, no handlers, no contacts”. She snaps her fingers. “Like he vanished in a puff of smoke”. She shrugs. “Should have known he was…” She glances at Steve.  
“It’s okay. You can say it,” he says. He doesn’t begrudge her mistrust. That doesn’t mean he has to like it.  
“Why would a Demon go after Fury,” she mutters to herself.  
Steve stares unseeing at the road ahead. The Demon, the Winter Soldier, there had been a muzzle covering his face. The restrained energy around him. Steve hadn’t recognised it at first, but he’d felt that energy before. Carved onto tunnel walls. Inscribed on silver discs in the dirt. Bindings. He closes his eyes. His vision is filled with a pit in the darkness. Bucky on his knees in the dirt screaming like an animal in a trap.  
“The question is, who would send a Demon after Fury?” He answers. He glances at Romanov. “A Demon that has been summoned and bound to a master has no agency, it’s enslaved. It cannot refuse an order. It doesn’t choose to obey, it’s forced to until its master is dead or releases it from their service”.  
“It?” Romanov asks. Steve sighs.  
“Most Demons don’t go running around looking for trouble’. He thinks of Omid, the photo of his wife on the dashboard. “Don’t look for the Demon, look for the man with a stick driving the Demon”. He snaps his mouth shut and tries to breathe through his anger.  
They drive in silence for several minutes.  
“Are you under duress?” Romanov asks finally. Steve shakes his head.  
“I’m just trying to do the right thing”.  
The compass leads them to an abandoned military base outside New Jersey. They park the car a short distance away and circle the buildings.  
“This is a dead end,” Romanov grumbles.  
Steve says nothing. The compass still feels warm to the touch and twitches when he turns away from one of the buildings. It is an ammunitions storage facility from outside appearances. When they break the lock and enter they find a long abandoned office. There is a logo on the wall, a stylised eagle.  
“This is SHIELD.” Romanov mutters, studying the framed photos along the wall behind a long abandoned desk.  
Peggy is up there along with Stark and Col. Phillips. Steve finds it hard to look at them. He makes his way through the rows of empty shelves over to a large bookcase set against the far wall. The compass in his hand is getting warmer and thrums with energy. He presses his hand to the wall. There is something in there, he can feel it. A mechanism of some kind. A secret chamber. Cold iron and gears. He reaches and twists. There is a loud rattling, clanking sound and the bookcase begins to recede into the wall, revealing an alcove and a trapdoor. He glances over at Romanov, then pulls open the hatch to reveal a spiral staircase.  
Romanov raises an eyebrow, but pulls her phone out of her pocket, turns on a flashlight setting and lights the way down the staircase. The bright light sweeps through the darkness. They leave footprints in thick dust on the steps. The metalwork creaks and complains with every movement.  
The staircase leads them to a room filled with old equipment. Romanovs flashlight picks up faded grey plastic and banks of large cabinets stretching out into the gloom. There are shelves filled with sheets of metal embedded with small plastic blocks, walls of reel to reel tapes and flickering dials. Thick bundles of wires trailing across the floor. A work surface cluttered with old computer monitors stands in the centre of the room.  
“This is a computer.” Steve mutters. Romanov looks over at him.  
“You know about computers,” she asks, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.  
He shakes his head. Bucky did. He had been fascinated by the work at Bletchley park, would bend Steves ear about capacitors and relays. The whole thing had made his head spin. His chest aches, his throat tight. He takes a deep breath, swallows down the lump in his throat.  
The computer monitors flicker into life, fuzzy green text moving across the screens. There is a crackling, and a voice, buzzing with static, fills the room.  
“Captain Steven Rogers. I wish I could say it is a pleasure”.  
Steve whips around, looking for the source of the voice. He knows it, he’s heard it before. Something twists low in his stomach. Demon.  
“It’s some kind of recording,” Romanov says.  
There is a distorted sound, a discordant whine and crackle.  
“I am not a recording, Natalia Romanov”.  
The monitors flicker, resolving into an image of a face. Kobold. Steve scowls. Romanov sees the look on his face in the dim light.  
“You know each other?”  
“He called himself Zola. He worked with the Red Skull”. Steve feels his blood burn. All those Demons, clamouring in the pit because of this creature. He wants to smash his fist into the screen. Wants to tear the shelves down, rip the wires from the walls. Wants to see Zola burn. The image on the screen flickers. The voice around them grates out a laugh.  
“You cannot touch me, Captain. I have transcended beyond physical form. I am radio waves in the air. I am electrical impulses. I am two hundred thousand feet of data banks”.  
“A Demonic possession,” Romanov murmurs, “Of a machine”.  
“How did you get here,” Steve snaps.  
“Operation Paperclip,” Romanov answers. “ After World War 2 SHIELD recruited German scientists”.  
“And Demons?” Steve asks.  
“They thought I could help their cause. I also helped my own,” Zola responds.  
Steve shakes his head.  
“Hydra died with the Red Skull,” He insists.  
“Cut off one head, two more shall take its place”.  
The monitor screens flicker, displaying a series of images. Johann Schmidt. The Red Skull. Hydra bases across Europe.  
“Hydra was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom. We learned that if you try to take their freedom, they resist. The war taught us much. Humanity needed to surrender their freedom willingly”. The screens distort, blurring into green before Zolas image reappears. “The new Hydra was born, a parasite inside SHIELD. For seventy years we have been working in secret”. Zola's image blurs, is replaced by a barrage of imagery. Steve doesn’t recognise most of the images, but he hears Romanovs gasp. “ When history didn’t cooperate, history was changed”.  
The screen displays a newspaper reporting Fury's death. Steve snarls and puts his fist through it. The voice does not stop.  
“We have created a world so chaotic that humanity is finally ready to surrender its freedom. And then you returned”.  
The image on the screen is of the cartoon Captain America.  
“Captain America, symbol of freedom. A beacon to the cause”.  
The room begins to shake. The walls begin to crack and crumble.  
“You cannot be allowed to live”.  
The remaining monitors flicker, revealing a radar map of the area, several targets moving rapidly towards them. Romanov hunches over the screen.  
“We’ve got a bogey. Short range ballistic,” she says.  
Steve turns sharply, looking for a way out. He sees endless cabinets in the muted light of the monitors. No way out.  
“Who fired?” he snaps.  
“SHIELD,” Romanov responds, her voice dull with shock.  
Steve grabs hold of Romanov, pulls her close. He utters a short string of syllables, soft and musical.  
“We are out of time”. Zola announces flatly.  
The walls explode, raining fire and concrete and twisted metal down. The monitors, data banks, all crushed under the debris. The faded grey plastic bubbles and warps in the flames. There is a flicker of green and the kobald known as Zola is no more.


	5. The Asset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "With no feelings at all  
> Open minded  
> I'm sure I used to be so free"  
> -Citizen Erased  
> Muse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, here we are again.  
> Can I just say, damn I have missed writing this guy. I love you Steve, but... y'know.  
> A short chapter today, but tomorrow we'll have shocking revelations, dramatic action and Omid. I love you Omid!  
> Thank you again for reading, for kudos and for comments. You warm my black and bitter soul, you really do.

His Master keeps him in darkness when his services are not required. Does not dismiss him or summon him, only fills his veins with ice and seals him in a casket. If he behaves that is all that is done to him. He seldom behaves.  
“Sergeant Barnes”.  
The old Master had bound him with silver, with copper, with iron. The old Master sliced into his flesh and placed engraved periapts under his skin. Wrapped gold wire inscribed with sigils around his bones. The metal burns his flesh. The metal chars his bones.  
He remembers a kobold standing over him, hacking into the ruined muscle of his left shoulder. It called him the fist of Hydra.  
“Put him on ice”.  
There is dead weight where his left arm once lay. He had watched it smoulder to ash (I’ll take care of you). Plates of clay pulled from the Vltava, fired and coated in silver in its place. His flesh blisters and scalds where the silver plates touch skin. His old Master had placed the shem behind a red star at his shoulder. His old Master is dead, long dead. Torn to shreds. But others came and took his place. Spoke the Assets name and told him to obey.  
“Sir, it’s… it’s unstable. Erratic”.  
When he does not behave they drive thorns into his skin. When he does not behave they drive needles into his skin. When he does not behave they drive railroad spikes into his skin. They do not care when he screams.  
“Prep him”.  
They pour blood onto clay tablets inscribed with geometric shapes. They soak black cloth in pepper water and wrap it around his limbs. His skin blisters where the clay presses against him.  
“Mission report”.  
They wrap fresh vines around his ribs, scraps of parchment tucked in amongst the leaves, against the mottled bruises on his skin. They salt black leather and strap it to his chest. The leaves cut into him. The salt burns.  
“Mission report, now”.  
He is struck in the face. He cannot counter the blow, cannot deflect it. His head snaps to the side. Every movement aches. He is made of lead. He is damp clay, formless and thoughtless. He turns to face his Master. His mouth is dry, his voice a disused rasp.  
“The man”. On the rooftop. (I ain’t leaving. Not without you). He shone like the sun. “Who was he?”  
His Master. Pierce, the others called him. Sir, the others call him. His Master pulls up a chair and sits down. he looks weary, but patient. Kind. Lie. He is not kind.  
“You met him on a previous assignment”.  
Lie. Under the pain, under the bindings, his heart clenches.  
“I knew him”.  
His Master is patient. His Master understands. One day he will find out his Master's true name and he will kill his Master slowly.  
I knew him.  
“Your work has been a gift,” Pierce says. “You shaped the century, and I need you to do it one last time”.  
Lie. There is no end. No last time. He will find his Master's name and will show him horrors beyond imagining. He is patient.  
“One target. He cost me Zola”. His Master holds up an image. The man on the roof. (Fingers in his hair. Whispers of reassurance. Shh. It’s gonna be okay. Shh)  
“I want a confirmed kill in ten hours”.  
His Master stands, steps back.  
He is patient. His Master will make a mistake. He will crush his Masters skull.  
He flexes the fingers of his left hand. They are not fingers but pieces of fired clay and silver. He will find out his Master’s name and he will remove the bones of his fingers one by one (I’ll make you a bracelet out of his fuckin’ fingers).  
There is movement. Pressure between his teeth. The white flare of pain.  
When he does not obey they drive thorns into his skin.  
They do not care if he screams.


	6. The Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'How?' said the sun that melted the ground  
> 'Why?' said the river that refused to run  
> 'Where?' said the thunder without a sounds  
> 'Here' said the rider and took up his gun  
> -The Rider  
> Nick Cave

Steve feels a sickening loss of equilibrium as the world lurches sideways. He feels Romanov shudder and retch in his arms, her slight frame convulsing. He puts a hand to her forehead, damp with sweat, and tries to hold her together as best as he can. For a moment he feels suspended, weightless, and then the world bleeds back into his vision, piece by piece. Cracked leather presses to his back, to his thighs. An engine hums. Movement. Stillness. The stale odour of sweat. Music, tinny and distant. A stringed instrument, he can feel the vibration of the copper and steel strings, he follows the strum and pluck to the source. He opens his eyes.  
He is in the back of a taxi cab. From the radio comes the sound of plucking on a setar. Romanov is curled up on the seat beside him, her head pillowed on his shoulder. She is still, she does not breathe. She is somewhere else. He presses fingers to her throat, murmurs her name. She shudders, then grimaces.  
“Ow,” she grumbles. She opens her eyes, looks up at Steve.  
“...What?” She mutters. Her eyes widen. “Where are we?” She pulls herself up, looks around. “What the hell..?”  
“You awake, pretty lady?’ A voice calls from the driver's seat. A bottle of water is tossed over a broad shoulder and lands in Romanovs lap.  
Steve smiles as a second bottle hits him on the arm, followed by a tupperware container filled with sticky little squares of candy.  
“Halwa. Eat up,” the driver calls over his shoulder. “You’ll feel better”.  
Steve opens the container and offers one to Romanov, persists until she picks out a cube and tastes it warily. He pops one in his mouth, it’s painfully sweet and crunchy with sesame seeds. He washes it down with a mouthful of water, gesturing to Romanov to do the same. When he feels like he can talk without vomiting or passing out, he flicks a hand at the front of the taxi.  
“Romanov, this is Omid.”  
The driver shifts around is his seat and takes a good look at them. He pulls down his sunglasses and gives Romanov a broad smile, the corners of his mouth disappearing into his carefully clipped beard. Romanov doesn’t make a sound when she looks him in eye, and Steve feels a surge of pride that she doesn’t flinch at the cherry red glow behind his shades.  
“Pretty lady,” he says, pushing his sunglasses back in place. He turns to the road again. Steve tries not to roll his eyes.  
“Omid, this is Natasha Romanov,” he says. Courtesy, a low voice whispers in his memory..  
“Not your real name,” Omid responds. Romanov shakes her head. “Good girl”.  
Steve snorts and swallows another mouthful of water. Romanov stares at him for a moment, then takes another piece of candy and stuffs it in her mouth.  
“I like her,” Omid announces.  
“Omid is an ifrit. I called him for help”.  
“And just like that we’re… where are we?”  
“Newark,” Omid answers cheerfully.  
“We’re in New York?” she snaps.  
“Quicker to bring you here,” Omid responds. “You seemed in a hurry”.  
“Thank you, Omid”. Steve says quietly. He nudges Romanov, glances at Omid. Mouthes the word ‘courtesy’ to her. She manages to look contrite.  
“Yeah, thanks,” she echoes.  
Steve finishes his bottle of water. He feels a chill in his bones and suppresses a shiver. The ocean is close, he can feel it. A low, distant pull at his bones. He tries to push the sensation to the back of his mind and risks a glance at Romanov.  
“You okay?” He asks gently.  
She shrugs, takes a drink of water. Her shoulders are tense, her expression tight.  
“What’s going on?” He knows it’s a stupid question, but they are both rattled and he isn’t sure if he can do much in the way of talking. He feels the threads of the spaces in between clinging to him, cold and grasping. Feels the low pull of the North Atlantic, steady and hypnotic like a heartbeat. He needs something to focus on. Romanov sighs heavily, shifts in her seat.  
“Before SHIELD I... I made a name for myself. I had a very specific skill set and didn’t care who I used it on,” she glances up at Steve. “I thought I was going straight. I guess I just traded the KGB for Hydra”. She smiles at him, but it’s a small, bitter thing.  
Steve offers her another piece of candy. She smiles faintly and takes it, chews it thoughtfully.  
“Who in SHIELD could launch a domestic missile strike?” She wonders out loud.  
A symbol of freedom, Steve thinks to himself.  
“Alexander Pierce,” he says quietly, sealing the lid on the tupperware. He feels better for the candy. His head feels clearer, his fingers are more steady.  
Romanov nods her head. She is not as shocked as Steve would have expected.  
“I don’t mean to intrude, and I’m having a delightful time driving in little circles, but where would you like to go?” Omid shouts over his shoulder.  
“Washington,” she tells Omid. He hums in affirmation and pulls on the steering wheel.  
“What’s going on?” Steve asks.  
“We need to get to the Triskelion. If I can get to the computers I can disable the security protocols and dump the information on the internet”.  
“You can’t bypass all that security on your own”.  
She hesitates, and Steve suddenly realises that she has been lying to him. He can see it in her eyes.  
“I won’t be doing it on my own,” she says warily.  
“What aren’t you telling me?”.  
“Fury’s alive,” she says quietly. Steve freezes. “He suspected whoever was after him would go after you too. He told me to stick by you”.  
For a moment Steve feels the white hot glow of anger, deep in his stomach. He closes his eyes and lets out a breath. He is so tired. Tired of secrets and deception and empty words. Tired of being a soldier, of being Captain America. Tired of it all. He shakes his head. It’s all lies anyway, SHIELD, everything. So tear it down.  
“You have to tell the world about Hydra,” Steve mutters.  
Romanov pulls out her phone. Pauses. She looks at Steve for a moment.  
“Not just Hydra. Everything. If I hack into the mainframe, lay out all SHIELDs secrets for the world to see, that means everything. Everything in my past,” she hesitates. “Everything in yours”. She lowers her phone. “The world will know what you really are, Steve”.  
The world will know about him, about Bucky. About all of them. He glances up at the ifrit.  
“You okay with this, Omid?” He asks. The ifrit laughs.  
“Hah. What can they do to me?” He says with a broad grin.  
Steve feels the tension in his shoulders ease.  
“I’m not ashamed. Let them know”.  
Romanov nods, makes a call. Steve feels his stomach twist. An odd sensation, vaguely familiar, like something brushing up against him. He can hear Romanov muttering on her phone, making plans. He leans into the sensation and feels it press against him in return. He watches as Omid pulls off his sunglasses, tilts his head as if hearing the distant sound of music.  
“Guys, we have company,” he shouts.  
There is a crash as something hits the roof. Romanov throws herself into a defensive position as Omid pumps the breaks. A metal hand punches through the roof, tearing through the thin steel. Demon. Steve grabs hold of Romanov, wrapping his arms around her. He kicks the passenger door open and throws them clear, rolling across the tarmac as vehicles skid and spin around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun Dun Duuuun!  
> Last chapter tomorrow, folks.  
> Thank you as always for reading, for kudos and for your ever wonderful comments. Seriously, I love your comments.  
> I can be found on tumblr thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com where I grumble about mental health and Sebastian Stans punchably pretty face.


	7. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "From the entrance to the exit  
> Is longer than it looks from where we stand  
> I want to say I'm sorry for stuff I haven't done yet  
> Things will shortly get completely out of hand".  
> -Old College Try  
> The Mountain Goats

Steve is on his feet in seconds, dragging Romanov up with him. Omid is still in the taxi, peering up through the hole in its roof. Steve follows his gaze up and sees the Demon from outside his apartment, the one who attacked Fury. He is standing on the shredded roof of the taxicab, long dark hair obscuring his features. His left arm gleams like polished steel, a complexity of interlocking plates. His eyes are hidden behind a blood smeared visor, his face obscured by a mask. The air is filled with the burn of salt, the metallic chill of bindings.  
Romanov pulls out her gun, levels it at the Demon.  
“No,” Steve shouts, grabs at her hand and forces the gun down.  
Whatever the Demon is, whatever it has done, he has done under duress. Steve can’t hold him accountable, not when he is in so much pain. And the Demon is in pain, Steve can feel the screech of its nerves. He can feel the leaden weight of its bones, heavy with curses and fetters. The Demon reaches down towards Omid, who flings his hands out, sending a blast of flame at the Demon, casting him from the cab and skidding several meters along the asphalt. The Demon throws down its metal hand and digs his fingers into the road surface, scoring deep grooves in the concrete and coming to a halt. Steve shouts for Omid, who climbs out of the cab, his skin is glowing, at his shoulders are wings of golden flame. Romanov makes a small noise in the back of her throat as he runs to them.  
“Omid, you need to get Romanov to Washington”. Steve pushes Romanov towards the ifrit. “Go. The Demon’s after me, he won’t follow you. Get Fury. Tell the world what's happened”. Romanov hesitates. Steve gives her a push. “It’ll be fine. Go!”  
Omid wraps his arms around her and she turns to look at Steve.  
“Hold on tight, pretty lady,” he shouts cheerfully.  
There is a ripple, a burst of warm air, and they are gone.  
Steve turns, sees the Demon pull his hand from the asphalt and stand. He starts moving towards him. His is dimly aware that his heart is pounding, erratic. His skin thrums with energy, he itches with it. He can feel layers of restraints on the Demon, feels his skin burning with it. He holds up his hands.  
“It’s okay,” he says softly. “Let me help you”.  
The Demon lifts it’s hand, whips around in a half circle and throws a pulse of energy at Steve, knocking him off his feet. He scrambles up, drags what he can together and throws it back. It’s clumsy and badly aimed, but it hits the Demon in the face, snapping his head back and cracking the lenses of his goggles. The Demon takes a step back, tears the goggles from its face. Steve has a glimpse of pale blue eyes before he starts running. He dodges between the cars, moving down the street away from the main traffic.  
The Demon follows, fast and lithe. Slides a knife from his belt. Iron, cold iron. He tosses it in the air, catches in his right hand. Where the metal touches his skin it smoulders and burns. He grips the weapon tightly and lunges forward. Steve manages to dodge the blow, rolling to the side and scrambling to his feet. The Demon strikes again, aiming for his heart. He twists and the blade scratches along his clavicle, leaving a burning trail along his skin.  
“You don’t have to do this,” he gasps, dodging another hit. The Demon slashes at him repeatedly and he twists and parries, blocking with his arms, his shoulders, his knees. When he brushes against the Demon his skin fizzes and scalds. The Demon attacks savagely. Half mad with pain, Steve thinks, kicking the blade out of his hand and skittering out of reach. He casts around, feels the pull of the Atlantic. All rivers lead to the ocean. He starts running towards it.

He can see the glimmer of water when the Demon slams into him, knocking him to the ground. A hand on his throat, his left hand, shining metal plates crushing his trachea. Steve's fingers scrabble against the smooth plates, struggling for purchase. He lashes out, grabs the muzzle covering the Demon's face and pulls. It tears away and the Demon recoils, doubles over and gasps. Steve catches his breath, watches as the Demon slowly straightens up, his features visible.  
Steve knows that face. He has sketched the curve of the mouth a thousand times, in an apartment in New York, huddled between Dugan and Morita on missions in Europe so long ago. He has seen those eyes light up with laughter, crinkle with amusement. He has memorised the curve of his jaw, the dimple of his chin and the taste of his lips.  
“Bucky?”  
The Demon looks up at him, scowls. There is no recognition in his eyes.  
Steve can’t breathe. Can’t move.  
Bucky.  
Bucky, alive and blank eyed and in so much pain. The horror of it overwhelms him for a moment. His Bucky, wrapped in curses and wards and silver.  
The Demon, Bucky, straightens up, pulls another knife from his belt. Cold iron burning his fingers.  
“Bucky,” Steve calls to him. The Demon moves closer, fingers tightening on the knife.  
“Who the hell is Bucky?” He rasps.  
Steve feels his heart break. Retreats slowly as Bucky comes closer. He has to do something. He can feel his own skin shivering at the bindings and spells wrapped around the Demons frame, can hear the screaming of his body as it burns with it.  
“Please don’t do this,” he says softly.  
Bucky lashes out at him with the blade. He ducks, grabs a handful of the cloth wrapped around his torso. It tears in his hand, spilling silver discs onto the ground. Bucky strikes again, the blade slicing into his hip. It burns and freezes. Steve grits his teeth, grabs another handful of binding cloth and pulls, ripping it away and scattering a handful of clay pieces that shatter on the asphalt. Bucky recoils and stumbles backwards. Steve starts running, following the ribbon of asphalt to a bridge spanning a river. He keeps to the hard shoulder, dodging the traffic, presses against the faded blue barrier. Edison bridge, crossing the Raritan. He remembers Bucky sprawled across his battered old couch reading articles about Tesla and Edison. River to the ocean go he thinks, glancing down at the river below. He knows what he has to do. He stops and turns, and there is the Winter Soldier. There is Bucky.  
“You know me,” he says firmly, as if he could push the words past the blank eyes, past the tattered rags that hang from his frame. Bucky snarls at him.  
“No, I don’t,” he grates out, slashing at Steve with cold iron.  
Steve dodges the blow but doesn’t fight back. He won’t fight.  
“You’re my friend,” he says softly.  
“Shut Up!” Bucky roars and strikes out again, both hands wrapped around the knife handle as he jams the blade into Steve's shoulder. It burns, his skin blisters and smokes. Steve lets out a scream and collapses against the barrier, the cold metal bars pressing into his back. Bucky is frozen in place, his fingers still grip the handle and Steve tries to grasp them, his fingers slipping over cold silver. He is shivering, his hands shaking as he tries to hold Bucky's wrists, his forearms. He reaches up and presses his palms against broad shoulders, slides his fingers over the cold skin at the nape of his neck.  
He remembers the taste of bitter coffee and Lucky Strikes.  
The knife pulls at him as he lifts his head. His wound burns as he wraps his arms tightly around Bucky’s shoulders, pushes fingers into his hair. He presses his forehead to the Demon’s neck. It stings. It aches. Bucky loosens his grip on the blade, presses fingers to the blood soaking into his jacket. Steve lifts his head and rests his cheek against the chill of his jaw. His mouth brushes against Bucky's ear.  
“Your name is Bukavac,” he whispers. “Your name is Bucky”.  
He grips tight and pulls sharply, throwing them both over the barrier and down to the River below.

There is silence and swift movement, the current pulling at salted leather and tightly wound cord. Bukavac presses his feet into the silt, puts his back to the flow and grips the body in his arms tighter. Tilts his head back to the sunlight filtering through the water. He tightens his grip and pushes his way to the shore. He lays the body out on the grass. Cold iron embedded in one shoulder. He tugs it free, casts it aside and places his hand over the wound. He hums to himself as the flesh knits together. Feels the steady rhythm of the heart. Watches the slow measure of breaths, breathes easier with each passing lungful of air. He steps back, head bowed, and turns to the river. His body aches. He slips into the water, slides under and does not resurface again.

For a long time he drifts, as if floating on an endless sea. Without anchor or sail he moves with the tide. There is light. There is darkness. There is light.  
Steve opens his eyes. He is lying on a hospital bed in a sterile room. At his right is a chair and on that chair sits Romanov. She has a strip of gauze taped above her ear. Her throat is mottled with bruises. She is reading a newspaper, the headline reads ‘Angels & Demons’. He chokes at that and she glances over at him, offers a small smile.  
“Hey,” he manages to croak out.  
“Hey,” she replies softly.  
She fetches a paper cup and a jug of water from a nearby table, pours and passes it over to him. He takes it with trembling hands and sips it slowly.  
“Weren’t sure when you were gonna wake up,” she says.  
“How long was I out?” His voice is steadier than he expected.  
“We found you on the banks of the Raritan river two days ago”.  
Steve rubs at his shoulder, pauses when he finds smooth skin. He glances at the door.  
“Is that locked?” He asks warily. Romanov smiles at him.  
“No. No locks, no guards, no handcuffs. You’re not under arrest”.  
“Are you?”  
She smiles at him, brighter now.  
“They wouldn’t dare”.  
She takes the cup of water from him and refills it. Hands it back. He takes it gratefully.  
“Where’s Omid?”  
“I don’t know, probably still driving around in a taxi somewhere”.  
Romanov tosses the newspaper onto the bed next to him.  
“The world knows about SHIELD and Hydra. And you”.  
“And what do they plan to do with me?”  
Romanov shrugs.  
“Pierce?”  
Romanov smiles. It is a vicious thing.  
“Secretary Pierce managed to evade capture and fled the Triskelion”.  
“You don’t look too upset about that,” Steve says quietly.  
“When agents broke into Pierce’s home to arrest him, they were unable to, but they did find enough pieces to identify him”. There is that vicious smile again, and Steve wonders what happened at the SHIELD headquarters.  
“Little bits of him here and there. He was identified by an intact lower jaw. Sat on his kitchen table next to a… souvenir,” she glances at Steve.  
“A what?”  
“A bracelet,” she says carefully. “A bracelet made of finger bones and silver discs, all tied with gold wire”. She watches Steve closely, sees his expression shift between horror and deep affection. Sees something not unlike a smile tug at his mouth. He notices her watching and tries to school his features. She nods her head, pleased.  
“Director Fury?” He asks, desperate to change the subject.  
“He decided to stay dead,” she says simply.  
Steve closes his eyes. The last thing he remembers is falling into the water, a cold iron blade buried in his shoulder. Bucky’s hands pressed to his marred flesh. He rubs at the absence of a wound. He remembers long ago, an apartment in Brooklyn. A cold hand pressed to the bruise forming on his jaw. I’ll make a bracelet outta his fingers, Stevie  
“You?” He asks finally.  
“Blew all my covers. I gotta figure out a new one”.  
It’s nothing new to her, he realises. A chameleon, forever changing to suit her surroundings.  
SHIELD is gone. He is no longer a soldier. He’s not even human, really.  
“What do I do now?” He asks quietly.  
Romanov smiles at him.  
“Whatever makes you happy”.  
He thinks of Coney Island. He thinks of a soft, low voice reading out loud from a magazine and the taste of bitter coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thats part two, folks!  
> The third and final part will start in a weeks time.  
> Thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos and commented. If you ever need a kidney, give me a shout.  
> If I were to pick one song for this fic series 'Old College Try' by the Mountain Goats would probably be it.  
> If you want to talk fic, mythology, psychology, why coffeeshop au's are the devils work or how much you hate Sebastian Stans pretty face, find me at thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com


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